Sometimes our aversions reveal more of us than our acknowledged preferences. I have always been appalled by the hoarding of things. To go shopping for the sake of shopping seems pointless and to gather material goods without end self-defeating. I saw the consequences of that kind of hoarding up close when a neighbourhood fire took one life and upended another – all because of a failure to dispose of anything. I was likewise horrified by the sight of no less than 12 huge disposal bins of stuff being hauled away from a different house in the neighbourhood whose sole owner and resident had been moved to a care home. I have heard several equally baffling stories of compulsive hoarding, yet I still cannot comprehend such a life-threatening accumulation of mere stuff.

 So it was something of a shock to glimpse a hoarding tendency in myself. One can, I now realize, cling to experiences and even household jobs with a stinginess that runs counter to genuine hospitality. The easing of pandemic restrictions in the past months, during which whatever resources I had within myself and around me had to be sufficient, has indirectly shifted my perspective on what it means to be generous rather than to hoard.

 A story from former teaching days will do as introduction. When I first stepped behind the podium in university classrooms, I vowed to teach only literature texts that I myself enjoyed. How could I communicate the importance of reading without sharing those novels, poems, essays, and dramas that I had learned to love? I kept my vow, mostly.

There came a time, though, when I no longer taught my special favorites. I had loved Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice, for example, and delighted in every rereading. That’s precisely why it was hard to be gracious about negative reactions from students, whether in class discussions or in assigned papers. I wanted to protect the novel, preserve it from the fumbling misunderstandings or dislikes of beginning readers. In other words, I wanted to hoard for myself my pleasure in Austen’s linguistic skill and memorable characters.  

There is a risk in offering to others what one loves, be it favourite books, special vacation spots (the opening photo remains unidentified on purpose), gardening tasks, cooking, craft skills, family heirlooms, special foods, treasured items. If the love, along with the story that explains the love, is not understood or is just brushed aside as unimportant, the specialness of the experience is somehow spoiled. The normal human desire to share what is beloved runs into the equally normal human desire to preserve in purity what is beloved. 

The normal human desire to share what is beloved contradicts the equally normal human desire to preserve in purity what is beloved.

Another example from my university student days: my sister and I attended the U of S at the same time, for a year or two. I was aiming for a degree in English literature; she was working on a degree in clinical psychology. Without a doubt, my very vocal antipathy for psychology provoked resentment if not outright hostility, even as I vigorously defended my favorite Shakespeare seminar class against her negative memories from a different Shakespeare class. Our relationship survived that difference; sisterly commitment can teach mutual tact.

 Odd how easy it is for me to understand lapses into ungenerous attitudes that occurred decades ago. Distance provides perspective and some wisdom. It has not been as easy to see in the moment when I have chosen to hoard my pleasure in something rather than to share it willingly.

 So let me sidle up to the painful analysis by stepping sideways into the sharing of material gifts. To purchase some ready-made item as a gift is comparatively risk-free, although feelings can be hurt there, too. You don’t like the book that I chose for you? Well, you can always give it away again or perhaps return it if I’ve included a gift receipt. Not a problem. If you don’t mind telling small lies, I might never discover that you were annoyed I could even imagine that you’d like such a book.

 However, if I’ve put hundreds of hours into crocheting a beautiful afghan meant as a bedspread, and you then toss it to the cat for a plaything – oh, that’s another matter entirely. If I’ve worked meticulously to prepare and then present some baking or flower arrangement or meal, yet the gift is seemingly not appropriately received, then I’ll feel as if my effort was valueless.

            Already those examples shade into the category of experiences or labour turned into a material gift. Such gifts entail some giving of myself.  

So what about the sharing of myself that hospitality calls for? I have known since childhood that there is such a thing as ungenerous, ungracious hospitality. Obligation, whatever its source, can motivate us to be the host, make the appropriate gestures, and provide the necessaries, whether we are emotionally ready or not. Mercifully, the visit can still become a joyous occasion in spite of initial reluctance. But it is far better to open heart and home willingly, with eager anticipation. There is a reason that the surprise (and surprising) guest who brings miraculous gifts appears in so many folk tales and in sacred texts.  

Much as I admire the gift of being hospitable and have learned to take great delight in hosting guests, I admit that I still struggle sometimes to find a balance between the joy of hospitality—it’s been so long since we could offer dinners in our home or put the spare bedroom to good use—and an ongoing need for some solitude, not to mention too great a sensitivity about prized possessions or beloved tasks.

An example: I love gardening (my readers already know that) and even the usually onerous chores such as weeding are mine. Let me exaggerate here and insist that my flowers and I know one another: I think I know how much water they need and how gentle I should be when I pluck off dead flowers. What then shall I say when some child passing by on the front walk wants to “help”? Or asks if he can pick some flowers? – yeah, the ones I planned to save for seed next year.

  I began this blog writing about hoarding. Easy enough to decry the silliness of collecting empty plastic bottles or ancient newspapers. Not so easy to look in the mirror and admit that I sometimes let my perfectionism block real connections with guests as much as if I had piled up boxes of stuff across the front hall. But I wanted that entrée to look exactly that way, so I refused the help of someone who wanted to be part of the creative process, too, not just an eater of the final production.

  A final story: my beloved mother-in-law was the embodiment of hospitality. She taught me much that I needed to learn about welcoming people into our home, into our life. There came a time when she could no longer offer hospitality, when it was our turn to host family gatherings. Thinking that it was about time she took some well-earned rest (and her hands had become shaky), I wanted to turn down her offers to help. The making and serving of meals was now my job. Fortunately, I was reminded, tactfully, that she still needed to be part of the kitchen crew with its happy chatter, wanted to see herself as a contributing member of the community. My refusal of help had been ungenerous.

I am grateful for the continual teaching I get from our children as they now raise their own children. Their free sharing of work and experiences with their little ones teach me now what I didn’t learn when I was a child: sharing is better than hoarding, and comfortable relationships matter more than final products.

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